Her Angel
by Dart Gray
Summary: Read one or all..each different and independent stories of Christine and the Phantom's relationship from her arrival to the movie.
1. The Lesson

She had been there before.

The lake like dark emeralds beneath a glass, the lights dim as they rose from the depths—she had seen it all before, in the deepest sleep when dreams seem their realist and reality seems its farthest away. She always began asleep in her bed and awoke in that same cold cot by the window with only a song playing sweetly in her mind. Was it real? She could only trust what she felt. She felt as if she had seen an angel.

"Girls of seventeen years old should not believe in such things," Madam Giry scolded when Christine whispered her stories to Meg at rehearsal. "If you were not day dreaming during practice, you would not still be in the back row where your poor technique is not seen or heard." Then she would lean over her shoulder so that her voice entered only Christine's ear and said very softly, "You must improve constantly, Christine. He has great plans for you."

He.

He sat in front of a choir of pipes, scribbling on a scroll of staffs and clefs. Every descent into the lair of the genius was as if it were the first time. She stood, wrapped in a thick black cloak he handed her for the cool that surrounded the water. Her eyes wandered over the curtains covering mirrors, the chandeliers, and the slender golden pipes that filled the cavern with beautiful, incandescent music. Time seemed to melt away here in this place. Perhaps it didn't exist at all…perhaps he didn't exist.

"Sharp," he sighed over his shoulder once more. Christine looked at her bare feet from her place behind him. "You must hear the note before you begin. Again."

"I can't hear it," she replied gently.

"You must hear it in perfect pitch," he demanded coolly. "Sing it again." He pressed a cracked yellow note on the majestic organ, and a solid E flat sung in full force. Christine closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Her lips parted, and a shrill tone blasted from her delicate frame. The teacher's hand slipped in a moment of exposed frustration, causing a horrid chord to interrupt the exercise. Christine jumped in reaction and began to pace.

"Sharp," he almost snapped with his head bowed between his shoulders.

"I can't get it," she mumbled with a tight frown on her sweet features. "I can't get it no matter how hard I try, I can't." Her teacher stood with the strange grace that was in his every move and stepped down from his operatic throne. When she saw that her failure had made him stop his work, she too stopped. Her pale hands were writhing before her as her eyes, wide in the dreamy state that his presence created, lifted to him. His gaze was warm but stern; she looked away.

"Hear the note in your mind before you sing it," he repeated patiently.

"I cannot hear it unless you sing it for me," she quietly pleaded. When her trembling brown eyes lifted to him again, it was he who had to look away. "You can sing it for me in my head."

One look from her, and he would. He would pull the world inside out for her, write every part suited to her, create an opera only for her…but she did not come for his love. She came for his instruction. He had to push aside the hope that perhaps one day, he wouldn't have to play this part. He wouldn't have to push her until she begged for help.

His lip flattened, and he waited. Christine closed her eyes and tried to recreate his voice inside her mind. She could suddenly feel his grip on her shoulders and shivered.

"Hear it," he beckoned softly. "Hear it." She swallowed. Somewhere, in the darkest place of her thoughts, she would. Somewhere, she kept all his songs secretly. Finally, it was there. Quietly but steadily the note escaped her white throat. Her tutor smiled. Christine's eyes fluttered open, and her heart skipped a beat—to see that smile beneath that strange porcelain mask was all she wanted. Without a word, he turned and leapt back to his place at the organ. That was his praise, that one moment of satisfaction. "Now you may finish the aria without a single note out of place." His fingers brought the instrument to life, and Christine prepared to sing.

"Thank you, Master," she sighed.

On the stage, music was projected forward in pieces. The orchestra below her played, she sang with her fellow chorus members, and the solos rang out above all; each part combined in the audience. However, there, with her teacher, the music came from inside her. She heard each phrase in her mind, and it lifted from her heart already entwined with him because he placed each note within her. There was no chorus, no orchestra, or melody to stay behind. It was only Christine and the Phantom. Two souls forged in harmony resonated above them, surrounding them in music. When he had stopped, she had forgotten to breathe. His hands dropped to his sides as he looked over his shoulder again; one eye was on her, the other behind the mask.

"Bravassima," he congratulated simply. One word included every encouragement she needed. One word portrayed every emotion he needed to while concealing that which he knew had to remain secret.

"Thank you, Angel."

A faint hint of that smile appeared again. It was a thought that entered his mind more than it should: perhaps there was love in her voice now.

_Her tears had been agony to hear, falling along with stifled sobs before a brass display of candles lit in distant memories. He had watched her, a bundle of bones and sadness, curled before that poor alter, and sang. In his comfort, she stopped. She listened to his song and began to hum along in a broken imitation. He had heard many talented girls from inside the walls of the opera sing and hum, but only her voice held desperation, need…he sang her to sleep every night so she could not cry anymore._

_"You must be my Angel of Music," the girl sighed in her bed with a smile._

_"What…what did you call me?" His voice shook in the darkness with affection._

_"My…my Angel."_


	2. Sorrowful Child

**AN: **I guess I'm in a POTO mood…here's another installment of my weird little one-shots. The "lyrics" that the they sing are actually mine. I mean, you can sing them along to the Angel of Music melody, but I wrote them. Anyway, maybe I'll write some more. Sorry I can't come up with a clever title or summary!

"Christine Daae doesn't have any family," freckled Anne Marie said while sucking on a long peppermint stick. A group of young ballet students were sitting backstage on a cold Christmas Eve, their tiny feet wrapped in soft pink satin and their hair tied back into tight round knots. The discussion had been Christmas plans, as most of the girls would be seeing their parents for the holiday.

Quiet, dark-eyed Christine had dreamed aloud a wish she often kept to herself—that one day, someone would come and take her back to the cottage by the sea. Somehow, by some Christmas miracle, her father would be there waiting. He would play carols on his violin while she danced, showing him how much she had learned after five years of training, and all those lovely memories would come to life. At Anne Marie's interjection her fantasy was shattered.

"Christine has a family," Meg Giry argued sharply, her pretty little face screwed into a glare. "Her father was a famous _violiner_, and that is her family."

"Well, he is dead, so he doesn't count," Anne Marie amended before shoving the rest of her candy into her mouth. Her parents were poor but still managed to shower her with candy and entirely too much of it. She had been bragging about what she expected on Christmas morning until Christine, the charming orphan who merited more praise and critique from Madam Giry than her own daughter, had mentioned something about her childhood at a perfect little house in the country. Anne Marie's parents lived in a dirty apartment in the cheapest part of Paris. "He can't come visit her. That's why she has to stay here in the opera house on Christmas day."

"I do too!" Meg growled.

"Your mummy lives here. Christine has none." The rest of the girls had been silent during this humiliation; they knew better than to challenge Anne Marie's aged confidence. Only Meg had parental protection to save her. Christine, the frailest of the younger girls, was sitting across from Anne Marie with tears in her eyes. She stood and ran from the group, her soft footsteps fading down one of the twisted halls of the backstage. Meg shot Anne Marie daggers through her brilliant eyes. She stood and stormed past the bully.

"Christine!" Meg shouted, hurrying after her. "Christine, come back!" Once again, her best friend and surrogate sister had disappeared into the maze of the opera house. Meg knew all of her hiding places, but she didn't have Christine's bravery. She could hear voices in the halls, movements above her and in the walls, and she was afraid. Christine seemed to take shelter in the haunting of the old theater. Meg bit her lip and turned back to the stage, looking for her mother to tattle. Christine would have to find her own way back.

She didn't want to go back. Alone in the chapel, she threw herself in front of the chilled stained glass window showing a smiling angel with open arms. She was shivering but from her own weeping. Too many times she found herself in tears over the absence of her father. Instead of agony from needing him, Christine was angry. She was ten years old and too young to be alone. She wanted to know why her father had to leave her, and she wanted to have her life back. This old opera house was not her home. Madam Giry was not her father. The music of the violin from the orchestra in the pit was not played for her, but for the soprano, and there were no friendly smiles to read dark stories of the north to her at night. She had nothing left. When Christine floated across the stage in dance, she forgot about her desolation for a few moments of bliss. Once again, Anne Marie's jealousy had torn that refuge away.

"I hate her," she chattered through her furious tears. "Why does she have to remind me…about everything?" Christine wiped her flushed cheeks and pulled her knees to her chin. After a few moments of silence, her heart began to regret blaming her father for Anne Marie's teasing. She quickly walked over to light a candle for his soul. As soon as the firelight caught the few tears left in her eyes, the song began. Slow and steady, it filled the small chapel from somewhere unseen. It was his voice, her Angel, and he had seen her in distress. She closed her eyes and fell into his words.

"_Sorrowful child, cry no longer…here you will find your comfort…"_

"Angel of Music," she whispered an answer, "you have found me. Stay with me now and always."

"_Forgotten and lost, you are lonely, turn to the window and see…when all of the world is against you, you are safe with me…"_

A shadow passed in front of the colored glass, snuffing her humble votive flame out. She gasped as a form took shape in front of the window, taking the place of the seraph, but framed by the image's outstretched wings. It was the real angel. He took a step forward, and she looked away. The celestial presence had frightened her, but she was wrapped in the warmth of his velvet cloak before she fell to the stone floor.

Madam Giry grumbled under her breath as she stomped behind stage, searching for the gaggle of girls who had once again sent Christine Daae into tears. Meg struggled to keep up behind, chatting away at all that was said and all that had happened. They were told to keep out of the adults' way, but Madam could not find Anne Marie or Christine. Instead, they found the rest of the ballet students in hysterics. Madam Giry sighed and calmed them enough to hear what was wrong.

"Girls, girls—where is Anne Marie? Did you see where Christine ran off to? Must you always pester each other until you are inconsolable?"

"Anne Marie was in an accident!" black-haired Charlotte exclaimed. Madam Giry's eyes widened as her hand was taken toward a corner near the door. Anne Marie was holding her foot while moaning, eyes squinted shut. The instructor immediately dropped to her knees to help the child. Meg and the rest of the classmates stood back, aghast.

"What happened?" Madam Giry asked. Anne Marie couldn't answer. Her foot was bent and swelling.

"She was going to the door when this fell," Charlotte explained for her. She pointed to a heavy sand sack that was usually kept suspended above the stage, safely tied or resting on the catwalks. Madam Giry immediately grew pale at the sight of the sliced rope. It hadn't untied—it had been cut.

"She's only a child," she muttered to herself. "Have pity, Ghost…"

"Mama," Meg stammered. "Her foot looks broken!"

"Ask Madam Lafleur for some ice," her mother instructed. She began to carefully remove Anne Marie's slippers.

"It hurts," the girl whined pitifully. "My shoes…they hurt…"

"No dancing for you, miss," Madam Giry sadly condemned. Her eyes darted upward for a moment, just in case he was still there…he was gone. Christine was gone. "Charlotte, go and find Christine. Check the hallways downstairs and the dorms."

"But," Charlotte stuttered with a trembling lip, "all…all alone?"

"Do not waste my time with ghost stories," Madam Giry snapped. "Go!" The girls padded off to follow their orders. Anne Marie was left with a badly bruised foot. "We'll call the doctor," she sighed. "Anne Marie, what did you tell Christine?"

"Nothing," she lied through her tears. "I didn't tell her anything!" Anne Marie was handed to her parents with a fractured foot. Her dancer's arch was broken, and she would not dance for at least three weeks—enough to get round off of candy and fall behind.

Christine was found later that night asleep in her bed, her face white as a sheet and cool as ice. She was sick, probably from wandering around the clammy basement of the opera house, Madam Giry reasoned. Only she knew why Christine was allowed to explore the darkest parts of the labyrinth, and only she knew why Christine would always be returned, safe and asleep in her bed. She shook her head and closed the bedroom door; she would have warm cider waiting for the orphan when she awoke. Her sleep was solid but far from peaceful—she had strange dreams of a faceless protector who sang her lullabies and cradled her close. Only her father could hold her, but she somehow knew it wasn't him. Still, she was safe. She regained her strength and warmth, forgetting all of the harsh words that had sent her into tears.

When Christine sat up on Christmas morning, she found a perfect red rose resting next to her pillow with a black ribbon tied around its stem. A few festive holly berries were nestled with the leaves of the flower, and a piece of chocolate wrapped in gold waited next to it.

Christine didn't believe in Father Noel—she believed in the Angel of Music.


	3. Blindly

Christine sighed at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair never seemed to curl like Meg's beautiful blonde locks, and besides its lack of effort, it was a horrid color. Even Charlotte's black hair was more appealing than awful, boring brown. Then again, Charlotte's eyes were a beautiful green—Christine's were solid brown. No color, no nothing.

"Could I be any more plain?" she muttered to herself while raking a brush through her tresses. Meg, looking absolutely heavenly in her shepherdess's smock, hopped along behind her.

"Christy, hurry up. I tore one of Mum's dresses, and she's in a mean mood. She won't like it if you're late." Christine rolled her unusually expressive (however brown) eyes and stood.

"Rehearsal now, ladies!" Madam Giry's voice called from the stage. "Do not be late!" The small dance troupe fluttered to their places while the other performers took theirs. Nobody but Madam Giry paid much attention to the dancers unless they made a mistake. Madam Giry allowed no mistakes, so they constantly remained out of focus. Songs were played and replayed, steps altered and perfected, until the fourth act was ready to be rehearsed. The Maestro turned to Madam Giry as she prepared the girls for their exit stage left.

"Excuse me, Madam," he tapped with his baton, "which one of these young girls will be singing the solo of the Lone Shepherdess?" The small group stopped, blinking and whispering behind their mistress's back.

"A solo, monsieur?" Madam Giry echoed. "I was unaware of any solo for the dancers!"

"A solo!" Meg whispered to her best friend. "I can't sing by myself! Don't pick me!"

"I'm sure Charlotte will get it," Christine muttered. "She's the singer."

"Her voice is horrid," Meg replied even softer with a twisted face. "Mother says she sounds like a goat." Christine began to giggle. "Christine, I've heard you sing before. You have a beautiful voice."

"No, I couldn't," she dismissed quickly.

"Girls," Madam Giry clapped. They all huddled around their teacher excitedly. "It seems we have a part to audition for. It's very small, but…only one of you can do it." Her eyes moved around the circle of students. "You will all audition for it. Meg Giry, do not give me that face, you will sing as well."

"Why!"

"Madam, our soloist!"

"Reserve the fourth act for next week," Madam Giry asked. "We will have a soloist then." He nodded, and the dancers were forgotten again. Christine felt, however, that they were all in the spotlight. "I will hand you the music after this rehearsal, and you will all practice it to your best ability. This is your chance." Madam Giry's firm eyes settled on Christine a moment before quickly moving aside. "This is a chance for all of you—practice well, girls, and don't forget your dances."

Christine looked at the copy of the solo with terror. She couldn't sing this in front of everyone at rehearsal; her audition would be an embarrassment. Charlotte could hit each note, Meg was already humming along with the melody fine, but Christine…her nerves would cripple her. She sat in front of the same vanity mirror that had disappointed her hours before with despair. Madam Giry eventually joined her, waiting until the rest of the girls had left, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I cannot do this," Christine moaned.

"It isn't as hard as you make it," Madam Giry sighed.

"I've never sung for anyone but…" The girl's voice trailed before she finished uneasily. "I've never sung for anyone but my father." Madam Giry took a deep breath before sitting down onto the chair next to her slowly. Once again, she looked to see that no one was listening.

"Christine, have you heard a voice in the night?" she asked quietly. "A voice that sings to you, perhaps you…you have seen a face…" Christine's pallor grew noticeably pale. A smile flickered over Madam Giry's sober expression before she continued. "One thing you can trust in this…mystery, Christine, is music. He will help you with this song. With his help, you will shine as the Lone Shepherdess."

"But I don't want to be the Lone Shepherdess!" Christine argued. "Charlotte would make a better one—Meg is prettier. Not me, I'm not good enough."

"Nonsense," Madam Giry hushed. She brushed the unruly hair out of Christine's face so that she couldn't hide behind it any longer. "Meg has to make an entrance in the next scene and cannot wear the costume. Charlotte does not have your talent, Christine. This solo is for you—it may be your only chance." There was a long silence in which Christine tried to find some self-confidence. "He says you have a beautiful voice," Madam Giry whispered. "With his help, Christine, you will do great, great things."

Great things seemed far too great for Christine.

She sat in the chapel, the place where she could always find the voice of her dreams, and thought about the pressure that had just been thrust upon her. Madam Giry wanted her to be the soloist, but she knew that she would not be handed the role. She would have to earn it, or it would go to Charlotte. Christine looked at the scrawled notes on the page of music before throwing it across the room in frustration. Hot tears lined her eyes as she stared into the firelight of her candle.

The sound of someone picking up the paper startled her. She turned and saw a figure in black in the corner, out of the light from the window, looking through the part. The shape shifted, and the shining white of a mask came into view. When the pale eye behind its form lifted to her, she drew a quick breath. He stepped forward with even, steady strides and handed the part back to her. She stared at it for a moment, outstretched in his gloved hand, before slowly taking it.

"M-Madam Giry—" she stuttered.

"You come to me for help," he finished flatly. Christine nodded almost shamefully. "I am willing to teach if you are willing to learn." It was a simple offer. Christine looked away. There was silence, something rare between the two who lived and shared in music. "If you are willing to learn," he echoed with a faint sigh. He turned, ready to disappear to where ever he came from.

"I don't know why she picked me," Christine suddenly blurted with a cracked voice. He paused before the window. "Why would she want me to be the soloist?" He heard her sniff and stand up. "I'm not very good, I'm not even very pretty." He turned completely now, listening. "I don't want to do this. I don't care if I'm in the chorus for the rest of my life—I'll never do any better." She held the music over the dancing flame of her candle. The corner of the page was close to being snipped by the fire when a black gloved hand moved her wrist. Once again, he had moved without her hearing. She nearly cowered beneath him, but his face, even hidden in that strange mask, was an expression of tranquil understanding. He took the music from her and away from danger.

"You…will do much better," he predicted with certainty. "Christine…"

It was perhaps the first time he had said her name; if it wasn't, it struck her as if it were a new word to ears. She had only been the child to him, but now at sixteen, she was hardly a child anymore. He called her Christine. In that word there was so much unspoken that Christine felt herself feel shy away at what she did not know. She pulled her arm from his grip.

"If you cannot trust yourself, trust me."

She swallowed, still frowning to herself. In her mind, she tried to find a reason not to. This strange specter, was he not the only one who looked after her? Was he not the voice in her mind, the protector of her night, and now the only one who would teach her how to sing? It seemed ever since she had arrived at the opera house, she was in _his_ care. More silence.

"It seems I cannot trust you with this music at the moment," he mumbled in a kind of joke. Christine only scoffed and shook her head. "The range is in your favor, if you did not notice. Unfortunately, the melody has several accidental flats that will either ruin your performance or impress your audience with how you are able to move from key to key." At this, her gaze slowly moved to the paper with mild interest.

"What key?" she finally spoke. He pointed to the marks next to the notes, but Christine's eyes moved to his own in question.

"It is in C Major," he explained briefly. She only blinked. "It moves from C to F, and after this chord progression here it is C Minor." Christine bit her lip and stepped aside.

"This is awful!" she cried, pacing before her angel and her alter. "I have no idea what you're talking about! How can I possibly learn how to sing this song…if…I must be so stupid…"

"Christine," he laughed slightly, "I will teach you." She stopped, the fearful horror frozen on her sweet, delicate features. "I will teach you theory, scales…" He took a step toward her. "I will teach you intervals, chords—I will teach you how to sing and how to understand what you sing." She stared up at him with confusion in her eyes.

"Why?" she asked softly. "Why…why would you want to teach me?" In this silence he wondered how he, a phantom, a man whose life had been a continuous night of despair, could be crippled by a pair of solid brown eyes. He moved away from her treacherous gaze and to the shadows, where he was safe.

"You will meet me here each night after your rehearsal. There is a place where you can sing accompanied, but this is where we shall start."

"I need my music!"

"For fear of the candle, Mademoiselle, I think I shall keep it." He was nearly lost in the darkness before he paused. "Will you trust me?" Christine looked at him hesitantly. He had her music, her hope, and now her future.

_If you cannot trust yourself, trust me._

He grew impatient and repeated slower,

"Will you trust me?" She answered.

"Blindly."


End file.
